


Taking A Shot

by cassandrasfisher, RhiannonMcBride



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: AUish, Canon Disabled Character, Courtship, Deaf Clint Barton, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Switch!Bucky, Switch!Clint, Wedding Night, Weddings, the writer picks and chooses from canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-27 12:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19013056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandrasfisher/pseuds/cassandrasfisher, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhiannonMcBride/pseuds/RhiannonMcBride
Summary: Clint and Bucky are getting married and reminiscing about how they met...





	Taking A Shot

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the Captain America RBB, based on art by cassandrasfisher.

“Are you ready?” Natasha signed as she spoke, her hands moving with the same deadly economy of grace with which she did everything.

“Yeah.”

Clint started to rake a nervous hand through his hair, but Nat swatted it down. “Don’t.” She looked him over and straightened his bow tie.

“How’s Bucky look?”

“As nervous as you.”

Clint still had trouble believing that he’d be getting married in a matter of minutes. He and Bucky had danced around each other for more than a year before Clint had screwed up his nerve and kissed him under the mistletoe at the Avengers holiday party.

Natasha later confided she’d set it up. She’d been his best friend for years and had seen the looks he’d been given Bucky when he thought no one was looking. “You’re not meant to be alone,” she had always told him, but he’d never believed her . He’d known the life they led wasn’t conducive to long-term relationships.

But Bucky was a part of their world, understood how it was.

And now they would be married.

**~*~**

Their first meeting hadn’t been all that auspicious. It was before Bucky had broken free of his programming, when he was still a soulless assassin being used by HYDRA. Clint had been working for SHIELD at the time, assigned to protect Bucky’s target.

Clint had foiled the assassination attempt, the exact opposite outcome as his first encounter with Natasha, who’d killed his protectee the day they’d met, long before she’d broken her own programming.

No, his first encounter with Bucky hadn't really gone that badly, at least from Clint’s perspective. They’d crossed swords, figuratively speaking, and Bucky had been wounded, one of Clint’s arrows through his right shoulder. Clint would never forget the icy look in the blue eyes above that black mask just before he’d shoved his client into a car and gotten away.

They had crossed paths three more times, with similar results, though the Soldier had come closer to succeeding than Clint liked to think about. Then the Winter Soldier had taken on Steve Rogers, who had recognized his childhood friend and fought to break through Bucky’s programming, ultimately succeeding, bringing the Winter Soldier in from the cold.

Natasha touched him on the shoulder, drawing him out of reverie. “Time to go,” she said.

**~*~**

He knew the sonofabitch he was squaring off against. The Winter Soldier. He was ruthless and damned skilled, and he’d faced him before. Russian, if that red star on his metal arm was anything to judge by.

He knew Nat had also crossed paths with him a few times, though she hadn’t given any indication that she knew him from her time with the Soviets. But he also knew her memories of those years were sketchy, some of them repressed, others repressed by her Soviet handlers.

The Winter Soldier had a gun in his hand, sighting in on his target. Damn, was he too late? He’d hit the ground running, but sometimes that wasn’t enough. His bow was in his right hand, and he nocked an arrow, not caring which type it was. Rushing his aim more than he liked, he let fly.

The arrow struck the gun, spoiling the Soldier’s aim, but unfortunately not knocking it out of that damned metal hand. The Soldier scanned the area, searching for the arrow’s source, finding him easily, as he hadn’t had the luxury of shooting from cover.

Clint dove behind a car just as a fusillade of bullets streaked through the space where he’d been. Too close. Why did this guy have to be so damned good?”

He popped up, firing blindly at the spot where the soldier had been, ducked down and scrambled in search of a better vantage. He needed a height; he hated fighting at ground level. But it wasn’t like the Soldier was going to let him run up a fire escape or climb a tree.

Wait. A tree. There, by the corner of that building, with a low-hanging branch that just might--

He slung his bow over his shoulder and broke from cover in a desperate sprint. He couldn’t really hear the bullets behind him, but he swore they came close enough he could feel their passing. He leaped for the branch, swung into a flip, repeated, repeated, until he was well into the cover of thick foliage. He kept the trunk between him and the Soldier, peered cautiously down.

The Soldier was staring up into the tree, knowing he didn’t have a good shot, choosing not to waste ammo.

Clint, however, now had a very good shot, and he took it.

The Soldier, unfortunately, had hella good reflexes, and he dove aside just in time. He glared up at Clint, and while he was too far away for Clint to really see those icy-cold blue eyes above that black mask, he felt as if he could nonetheless.

The Soldier stared up into the tree, then back toward where his quarry had been. Clint saw recognition in the Soldier’s stance at the same time he realized the same thing -- the man was gone. So this encounter was a draw, for now.

The Soldier shouted something at him, but Clint’s ears registered only the tone -- anger -- not the words. “I can’t hear you, asshole,” he called, then not waiting for a response, he swung further up into the tree and onto the adjacent building’s roof. He knew where his assignment was headed, and he needed to beat the asshole assassin there.

**~*~**

Natasha surveyed the garden, automatically noting the best escape routes, the potential weak spots, any potentially-suspicious wedding attendees. But security was tight, as it should be. This was an Avengers wedding, after all.

She smoothed the neat suit she’d chosen to wear, a little uneasy in her assigned role. She was a fighter, an assassin. She barely believed in love, though that was beginning to change. Still, the idea that she was in a wedding party was just ridiculous.

Only for Clint. Her oldest friend. Her onetime enemy. They’d tried to kill each other several times before she’d made her way in from the cold.

So much had been different then. She’d been almost wholly a different person, indoctrinated almost since birth to be the perfect Soviet spy and assassin. And then the Soviet Union had imploded, casting her adrift.

She’d gone to work for the highest bidder, selling her skills to anyone who could pay, never caring who her target was or why someone wanted them dead. She didn’t care, couldn’t care.

She’d encountered Clint a few times, mostly when he’d been assigned to protect her target _du jour_. She’d won a few of those battles, lost others, but above all, she’d been challenged, intrigued by this man who was so deadly with a bow yet fought to preserve life.

She hadn’t realized then her programming, without regular reinforcement, was beginning to break down, had yet to realize she could be free.

Then she’d taken an unusual job, and everything had changed.

**~*~**

She was being paid to keep someone alive. All right, technically, her target was the other assassin, but it still came down to preventing her counterpart’s target’s death. 

Not that the man was doing much to ensure that he stayed alive. He was a political activist who placed his work above his lifea stubborn optimist who held fast to his hope in humanity. 

Never mind that a previous assassination attempt had put him in a wheelchair. 

Hawkeye again. She’d learned his codename, but knew little else. Her Russian contacts had identified him as a freelancer, American, deadly with that bow, working with a variety of organizations, somehow still remaining damned near a ghost. 

But this time they were on the same side. Sort of. Still, she was pissed. Not that there was anything she could do about it. He’d been gone the moment he’d taken the shot. 

So with a few Russian curses directed at Hawkeye -- ending with a heartfelt “Ёб твою мать!” -- she’d gone to let Xavier know he was safe. At least until the next assassin came out of the woodwork. Not that Xavier was going to abandon his path for something as trivial as his life. The man was hard-headed as a Russian. Could drink like one, too. 

She’d been stunned when Hawkeye had come after her and grabbed her by the arm. She’d spun, intending to crush her assailant’s throat, but he’d dodged the blow almost casually. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked. 

She unleashed a torrent of Russian at him, and he frowned. She switched to English to say, “Nothing now. You just iced my target.” 

His frown deepened. “You work for the other side.” 

“Correction -- I work for whoever is willing to pay my fees.” 

“Care to name-drop?” His speech was a little odd, a little flat, and his gaze remained glued to her lips. With a start, she realized he was deaf. 

She shrugged. “Not usually, but he wanted Xavier to know, so it’s not a secret.” 

He made a “gimme” gesture. 

“He calls himself Magneto.” 

Hawkeye laughed. “Figures. Those two have quite a history.” 

She allowed herself a small smile. “Tell me about it on our way to Xavier’s. We both need to check in with him. 

**~*~**

Everything was ready. So was everyone except for Clint, and Natasha was taking care of him. Bucky really didn’t expect to be stood up at the altar, but he was still on edge.

This was all still a bit surreal, that after more than half a century of the half-life of the Winter Soldier, he had himself back and was building a life he could be proud of. That he had found even a measure of forgiveness for the crimes of the Soldier was more amazing, even though he had not been acting of his own free will.

Even Tony Stark had forgiven him. They’d never be best buds, but Tony had moved past civil to almost-friendly. He’d even insisted that he officiate this wedding, buying an ordination off the internet for the occasion. The man did nothing by half-measures, as his salmon-pink tux attested. Thor had argued with him over who should perform the service, but Tony had zinged him with, “I believe it says ‘before God,’ not ‘before _a_ god,” and Thor had roared laughter and surrendered.

Bucky looked down at his own dove-grey tux, feeling self-conscious, on display. Crowds made him uneasy at the best of times, then mix in the stress of the wedding, and it was no wonder he wanted to crawl out of his skin. Still, he calmed a bit when he got his first glimpse of his fiancé, resplendent in charcoal-grey, keen blue eyes searching for Bucky, lighting when their gazes met.

Clint, with Natasha at his side, began to thread his way through the crowd toward the altar. He moved with the grace born of his youth in the circus, honed by his years working in the shadows, lightly, on the balls of his feet. His eyes never left Bucky, and his hand flashed a sign, “I love you.”

Bucky’s fingers curled into the same sign, and he grinned. He really did love the big goofball. Not that he’d expected to, not when they’d first met -- that arrow to the shoulder hadn’t helped. Not even the next few times, before Steve had found the Soldier, found what remained of Bucky inside of him, brought him back to life.

Even once he’d been Bucky again, it had taken a while for him to be accepted by the Avengers, especially by the ones he’d fought directly against. Clint had been the first of those to thaw toward him, followed by Natasha.

Then had come that night at the holiday party.

**~*~**

Bucky hugged the wall, trying to be invisible. He didn’t belong here. Wouldn’t be here if Steve hadn’t dragged him. 

Thor was lounging on a couch, three starstruck (godstruck?) young women hanging on his every word as he regaled them with tales of his derring-do.

Bruce Banner and Stephen Strange were locked in an intense conversation, debating the relative merits of science and magic. Strange was a little drunk, and was getting louder as he got drunker. Banner remained quiet, in careful control, and Bucky would bet the drink in his hand contained no alcohol.

Tony Stark was on another couch, one arm slung around Pepper Potts’ shoulders, a drink in his other hand. He looked to be in his element; she looked like she wished she was somewhere else.

Happy Hogan stood with his back to another wall, alert eyes sweeping the room as if he expected trouble. He probably did. He held a drink in one hand, but Bucky figured that, like Bruce’s, it contained no alcohol.

Steve was sitting in an armchair in the corner, sketchpad in hand. For all he’d urged Bucky to attend, he didn’t look like he belonged here any more than Bucky did.

Bucky took a couple of steps toward him, then stopped when Natasha got there first. She perched on the edge of his chair, began talking quietly. The woman could be too damned perceptive, but then she was a spy, trained to notice details.

Bucky had been about to retreat to his original position when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He whirled to find Barton staring at him. “What?” he demanded.

Clint pointed upward. “You’re standing under the mistletoe.”

Damn. So he was. “Ya gonna do something about it?” he challenged.

In answer, the other man’s hand slid behind his neck and pulled him forward until their lips met.

Clints lips were warm and pliant but insistent, and Bucky yielded hungrily. The knowledge that he was kissing another man openly in the middle of a holiday party sent a frisson of unease through him -- he still wasn’t used to not having to hide who he was.

His hand slid into Clint’s hair, holding him close, while his tongue flicked against Clint’s lips, a silent question. Clint’s lips parted, inviting him in, and their tongues twined in a primal dance.

When they finally came up for air, it was to scattered applause. Clint’s blue eyes were glazed with lust, and Bucky was sure his own expression must be similar. “Your place or mine?” he asked, voice husky with desire.

“Mine,” Clint said. “It’s closer.”

“Only by two floors.”

“Still counts.” He grabbed Bucky’s wrist and dragged him toward the elevators.

Once in Clint’s suite, which was predictably messy, Clint pushed Bucky up against the wall and kissed him again, savage and hungry.

Two could play that game. Bucky met Clint’s passion with his own, kissing back as if his life depended on it. He wasn’t so sure it didn’t.

His hand cupped Clint’s ass, lifting him just a little, grinding their cocks together. He was hard enough already that his jeans were becoming uncomfortable, but there was an easy fix for that. He pulled back long enough to paw at the snap of Clint’s jeans. “Off,” he commanded as his other hand went to the button of his own.

Clint obeyed with alacrity, toeing off his tennis shoes, then pushing jeans and boxer-briefs down his muscular legs and stepping out of them. Then he stripped his t-shirt off over his head, revealing the full glory of his body.

Bucky whistled. “Damn, Barton.” The man was simply stunning. His chest was a work of art, solid planes of muscle under tawny skin, his nipples small and taut. And his cock was even better, well-proportioned and thick, already well on its way to full hardness.

Bucky skinned out of his jeans, but he was reluctant to finish shedding his own clothes, to bare the scars and imperfections of his shoulder and upper chest, the contrast to the perfection of Clint’s body all too apparent.

Clint regarded Bucky’s frozen form, asked softly, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m a mess,” Bucky admitted. “Scars everywhere. Nothing like you.”

Clint frowned, and when he spoke again, it was even more gently. “Just because my scars aren’t so obvious, doesn’t mean I don’t have them.” He took Bucky’s right hand, guided it to the back of his head and a thick rope of scar tissue concealed by his hair. “My father was a mean sonofabitch, and when I was eight, he beat me unconscious. When I woke up, I couldn’t hear.”

Bucky often forgot Clint was deaf. Stark’s hearing aids functioned so well that it was easy to forget. It was only in rare moments, when Clint signed instead of speaking. or when his batteries got low, that anyone could notice.

Clint followed Bucky’s train of thought, and he reached up to slip one of the tiny devices from his ear. “Sometimes even I forget while I’ve got these in. But good as they are, they don’t undo the damage done. I take them out and I’m still deaf.”

He looked at the small device for a minute, then pulled its twin from his other ear. “Let’s not hide who we are tonight.”

Bucky nodded, knowing Clint couldn’t hear him. Slowly, he began to unbutton his shirt. Clint looked away just long enough to fish a small case from a jeans pocket and put his hearing aids away, then he turned his full focus back on Bucky.

Bucky slid the shirt off over his shoulders and let it fall to the floor, then waited as Clint took in the ragged scars that culminated in the seam of metal meeting flesh. “That’s not so bad,” he said, then he stepped forward and pulled Bucky back into his arms.

He kissed along the seam, and Bucky shivered. “Can you feel this?” he asked, then kissed Bucky’s metal shoulder.

Bucky nodded. The sensation was somewhat muted, synthetic nerves and metal “skin” not as efficient as flesh, but it was there.

Clint kissed a line down his arm, lingered on his fingertips.

Bucky tapped his shoulder to get his attention, and Clint looked up. “Bed,” Bucky said, exaggerating his lip movements a little.

Clint’s response was to tow Bucky down the hallway to his bedroom.

The bed was huge and looked sinfully comfortable. Clint pulled him over to it, kissed him again, then pushed him backward onto the mattress. “God, I want to--” He paused, looked a little sheepish. “Do you prefer top or bottom? I’m good either way.”

So was Bucky, but tonight he really wanted to have Clint inside him. “Bottom,” he said, pointing downward for emphasis.

Clint grinned, his blue eyes lighting. “Perfect.” He went to his nightstand and withdrew a bottle of lube, then he joined Bucky on the bed.

The lay together, indulging in leisurely kisses, the friction of skin on skin as they moved against each other making them both steadily harder. Clint’s hand roamed his back, circled lazily around Bucky’s hole, teasing, tempting.

“Get on with it, Barton,” he growled, but of course Clint didn’t respond. He cupped Clint’s chin in his fingers, urged his head up until he was focused in on Bucky’s lips. “Now,” he said.

Clint nodded, then he picked up the lube and slicked his hand. One blunt finger probed Bucky’s hole then pushed in, slow and steady.

God, it felt good. He wriggled against the finger, and Clint pushed in deeper, began coaxing the tight muscle to relax. “Mmn, you’re so tight,” Clint said, clearly approving.

Bucky buried his face in the juncture of Clint’s neck and shoulder, gave himself over to sensation. Clint was patient, drawing the process out until Bucky knew he was going to lose his mind. One finger. Two. Then three. “I think I’m ready,” he said, but of course he received no response.

One of Clint’s fingers brushed his prostate, and he saw stars. The maneuver was repeated, and he damned near passed out. His cock was hard as steel, aching and ready and leaking precome. He couldn’t take this much longer.

His fingers found Clint’s cock and stroked it roughly, commanding Clint’s attention. Then he pointed at his own ass.

Clint laughed. “Okay, bossy. Pick your position.”

Bucky rolled onto his back, pulled his knees up against his chest. He wanted to see Clint’s face. More importantly, he wanted Clint to see his face, see the reactions he couldn’t hear.

Clint lubed his cock and moved into position, and Bucky hooked his legs over Clint’s broad shoulders. Clint pushed in slowly, too slowly for Bucky’s tastes, and he used his legs to jerk Clint forward, burying his cock balls-deep in Bucky’s ass. Much better.

For just a moment, Clint looked startled, then he got down to business, pulling most of the way out then driving back in, over and over. Bucky knew he’d probably be sore for days after this, but damn it was worth it.

The head of Clint’s cock found Bucky’s prostate, and Bucky’s eyes rolled back in his head. Clint chuckled, did it again, kept doing it until Bucky was sure he would die from pleasure before he got to have the best orgasm of his life.

He took his own cock in his hand, stroked it without finesse, too close to the edge for any semblance of fine motor control, and the added stimulation was just what he needed. He came with a convulsive shudder and shot come across Clint’s belly.

Clint thrust a few more times and came deep in Bucky’s ass. He pulled out, leaving Bucky feeling empty, and collapsed on the bed beside him. A soft “Damn,” was all he managed to say, lying in a boneless heap beside Bucky, a goofy grin on his face.

Bucky knew the grin on his own face must be equally goofy. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d classed this as the best sex of his life.

**~*~**

It was a perfect day for a wedding. The sun was shining, and was certain to continue to do so, despite the weather forecast. Professor Xavier had a friend who could control weather, and she’d promised to keep the skies clear for the next few hours.

Natasha herded Clint through the crowd. He’d been on the verge of running late, more out of nerves than anything, and she’d pulled him out of his dressing room and marched him toward the altar where Bucky waited. “Don’t screw this up, Barton,” she’d said. “The two of you need each other.”

And they did. They each knew instinctively how to soothe the other’s broken places, and they both had their share of those. Two wounded and weary warriors who found their solace in each other, found the strength to keep fighting.

A part of her was jealous, she had to admit. She wanted that with someone, but as yet she’d found no one she could trust on that level. Maybe she never would. _Bog_ , she hoped that wasn’t so.

“Places, everyone,” Pepper called as Tasha and Clint neared the altar. Bucky was already there, Steve to his right, standing for him. Clint took his own place, on the other side of the altar, and she stood beside him.

The crowd’s chatter died down as they realized something was about to happen. Tasha looked out over the audience, seeing many faces she recognized, as many that she didn’t. Most of the first rows were Avengers and families of Avengers, members of SHIELD, and the X-Men, who they’d recently started working with. Thor with Loki, who he quite literally had on a tight least. The trickster god grinned as her eyes landed on him. Bruce Banner, his expression wistful. Charles Xavier, who’d played a small part in her journey in from the cold, his wheelchair parked at the end of the third row. The tall auburn-haired man known as Magneto sat beside him, holding his hand.

 

Tony cleared his throat then, signalling it was time to begin. “Dearly beloved,” he intoned, then he grinned. “I always wanted to say that.”

Pepper frowned at him, and his expression grew serious as he could make it, though his dark eyes still danced. “We’re here to unite two Avengers in marriage, Clinton Francis Barton and James Buchanan Barnes. The journey these two have taken to get to this moment has not been an easy one, yet here they are. It’s a tale that belongs in a romance novel, or maybe a comic book, but all that really matters is that they found each other.

“Much as I’d like to lead them through the traditional “love, honor, and obey” lines, these two have decided to write their own vows, so I’ll leave it to them. Gentlemen?” Natasha was sure she picked up a faint hint of irony on that last word.

Bucky went first. He signed as he spoke, sunlight glinting on his metal hand. “Clint, you know who I was, what I went through before I got here, and you were one of the first to accept me as a part of the Avengers, to offer your friendship. I can’t begin to express how much that meant to me. And then you offered me your love along with that acceptance. I’m still not sure what I did to deserve someone as kind and generous as you are, but I thank God every day for bringing you into my life. I love you, and I will go on loving you every day for the rest of my life.”

Natasha could see the tears gathering in the corners of Clint’s eyes, and she nudged him to start speaking before the emotion completely overcame him. He took a deep breath and began. “You ask what you did to deserve me. I would ask the same about you. My life was empty before you came. Natasha always said I wasn’t meant to be alone, but I didn’t have much hope of finding someone who could share this crazy life of mine. Not many understand the toll what we do takes on us, and I could never see inflicting that knowledge on someone else. But you’re already a part of this crazy superhero world of ours. You are my love, my solace, my sanity. I am yours, and you are mine, forever and always.”

Tony brushed away a tear -- though Natasha knew he’d deny doing so later -- and said, “I now pronounce you two husband and husband, Avenger and Avenger. Now kiss each other, you idiots.”

The two idiots did just that, blisteringly passionate and embarrassingly long. Bucky’s hand slid up into Clint’s hair, mussing it adorably, and Clint’s hands slid down to Bucky’s ass.

Natasha cleared her throat pointedly, and the two finally separated, blushing furiously.

“On that note,” Tony said, “time to party.”

**~*~**

The reception seemed to last forever, and all Clint wanted was to go shag his new husband. It had been almost twenty-four hours, after all. But no, they had to eat and drink, cut the (ridiculously frilly) cake, and dance.

He sucked at dancing, especially the kind of dancing expected at weddings. Having been unable to really hear music for such a large chunk of his life, he’d never really picked up dancing, unless it was slam dancing at a rock concert, where the music was felt even more than heard.

But he had to dance at least the one dance with Bucky. The song had been appropriate, though, Elvis Presley’s “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You.” They had swayed their way around the dance floor in each other’s arms, and Clint had to admit it was pretty damned romantic.

But at last the ceremonial shenanigans were done with, and he and Bucky were ensconced in their “honeymoon suite” in the Avengers Tower. They’d leave tomorrow for a proper honeymoon, two weeks in California (including Disneyland), but tonight would be spent here in New York.

The suite was almost ridiculously lavish, but it had a bed, and that was really all that mattered. They were laughing as they came through the door, a little tipsy on champagne, and Bucky spun him around and slammed him up against the wall. His lips crashed down on Clint’s in a savage kiss, and his hands were tugging at the waistband of Clint’s tuxedo pants.

Once Clint could breathe again, he said, “Slow down. We’ve got all night.”

“Don’t care.” Bucky untied Clint’s bow tie and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, then sucked at his new husband’s throat.

“Then can we at least get into the bedroom?”

Bucky’s response was to use the strength in his metal arm to sweep Clint off his feet and carry him to the bedroom. He tossed him down on the bed hard enough to bounce, then pounced, spreading himself over Clint and peppering his face and throat with kisses.

They eventually managed to shed all of their clothing -- tuxes were just way too complicated, and Bucky had Clint naked underneath him. “Need you so bad,” he said, his hand slipping behind Clint to finger his hole.

“I’m so there, babe,” Clint said. “Just find us some lube -- Tony’d better not have forgot.”

Bucky pulled out the nightstand drawer. “He didn’t.” Bucky slicked up his hand and began playing with Clint’s hole.

Clint groaned.

Bucky slid a finger inside.

Clint groaned louder.

Bucky worked him open quickly -- neither of them was in the mood to take their time on this first go-round. Not that Bucky would hurt him, just that he would push the envelope just a little.

Once he was satisfied Clint was ready enough, Bucky greased his cock, lined up, pushed in. Clint shuddered as he was filled.

Bucky gave him a moment to adjust, then began to move. His rhythm was insistent but not overly fast, and every so often his cock would skim over Clint’s prostate. Clint knew he wouldn’t last long this round.

And indeed it was only a couple of minutes later that he was coming, hard and fast and mind-blowing. His body spasmed around Bucky’s cock, and that pulled Bucky over the edge with him.

Later, as they drifted in a post-coital haze, Bucky kissed his earlobe. “I love you.”

Clint kissed his shoulder. “Love you, too.”


End file.
